


Lovely dream gone mad

by havenoideawhoiam



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst?, Break Up, F/M, Hurt, Relationship Issues, The feels, a freaking mess and not even sorry, bughead - Freeform, enjoy :), fuck me if i know what to put in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 21:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havenoideawhoiam/pseuds/havenoideawhoiam
Summary: They found happiness in face of one another, but managed to fuck it up. Too stubborn to recede and too afraid of hurt.Inevitable comes and one moves on.Can they mend the burned bridge? Refind love?Oneshot





	Lovely dream gone mad

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, men. Have done a freaking lot of editing and rewriting till a pleasing form.  
> Hope you enjoy it, but fare warning: might be with a whole lot of mistakes.

He?

He had no idea how he got here. How they got here.

 

Perhaps he realized how stupid he was acting. Was it too much to overstep his haughtiness and get back the love of his life? He’s had a couple more relationships, but none could compete with her.

It may have been just a simple, quite a cliché interplay induced by an awkward bumping in the street – he liked to think fate wanted him and her together – two of them rushing in the opposite sides. Papers were sprawled on the pavement, intermingled with books and stains of spilled coffee. Clumsy movements attempted to gather the sheets, blindly spat snarls and muttered sorry’s after they finally permitted themselves to look at each over. Electrified skin and running all over goosebumps at mere touch of their hands that handed over’s belongings.

The magnetic pull was undeniable. Ogles and feather touches ignited momentarily sparks of feelings that would mark the beginning of their story; for later to blow up into full ardent blaze. As for now, when nothing happened yet, they unconsciously reached for the other. Written in the stars, perhaps.

There existed a possibility that his reaction was an outcome of too much passed time since his last girlfriend. The biggest eyes he’s seen tinged with green were appraising him. He could even say checking him out. He definitely did not have a kink about flesh, but that expanse of smooth, milky skin had him wanting to lavish it –  to paint it with purple and red and bite marks - and had his mind wander to dark places filled with moans and gasps and writhing and–

Oh God, what the fuck was happening to him!?

He most surely was under the spell of that plump rose lip that was being nipped at. It just looked so kissable. Her curvaceousness should be illegal! SO sinfully full in all the right places. Ahhhhhh! Her traitorous skirt moved up and displayed her legs. Her legs that went for days…He wanted to get squished by them as he did her with–

Brilliant! Now a certain appendage of his body was getting hard.

Just perfect.

He’s known her for almost two and a tail minutes and she got him sprung. Is this girl even aware of the power she’s so carelessly brandishing?

But if he was frank with himself, she was the most gorgeous woman he has seen. Damned be all models and celebrities cause they naught to the natural beauty of this anthropomorphized goddess.

He wasn’t one to get hooked up just by exterior, to assess someone just by the looks. In his search for a partner he pursued depth of character. Presence of intellect and affinity for literature were qualities welcomed in a girl. But that damn woman… Had him with just beauty.

The feelings that coursed through him every time he was with her, the warmth building in his chest at the prospect of seeing her, being close to her, and the ludicrousness of how fast he was falling for her were terrifying him to the very core.

Everything about her was beautiful.

The way she concentrated whilst working on an article; how her brows would crease the space between when deep in thought. The loud and melodious smile she would bless him with became in an instant his favorite melody. He took as sacred duty to make her laugh as often. And let’s not get started on the emerald of her eyes; or cheekbones; or his readiness to loose sanity over forever worshiping his beloved if only she would clad in his shirts.

He walked a pretty roughed up road, dare he say fucked up, but never was he as happy as when with her. Sunbeams gone were from the sky as everything faded away at her halo of gold sprawled around her face. Nothing compared to the smell of her skin – intoxicating, addicting, drugging. Goosebumps that rose as his nose grassed her expanse of neck made his heart perform staccato.

Cherished most were the moments of her beaming down on him, his face surrounded by honeysuckle and tickling blonde. Her radiating smile on display just for him, crinkling her nose just before he would taste the sweetest thing. Her lips. Slow and wonderful. Playful and demanding.

The world was simple; complex global machinery rendered trivial – just around her. She made it all seem irrelevant and minor. Just because she replaced his _world_.

Alas, his happiness lasted for 11 months, 3 weeks, and one fucking day. _The_ day. The day when everything went south.

The day when they broke up.

 

Possibly it was the freaking invitation that she dared to send him. Like a token of mockery over his resolve to get over her – to forget her. Misery he’s been in since they parted ways, the one he tried so hard to bury and ignore, slapped his face. He had stared at it countless minutes when it had been delivered. All pink and flowers and cursive writing prophesying a binding of those people who beared the names scribbled on it. Moments after acknowledging the anguishing constrict of his chest, he crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, the other one send the glass he was holding into the opposite wall. He screamed, and broke, and threw things.

She might had had as well struck him with a sledgehammer in his bosom, inasmuch as it marked off losing her for good. He won’t get to hold her anymore, marvel her intelligence, bask in her smell, and never again profess love. The mere reflection of that event was excruciating. Shooting him dead would have been a fate more merciful than this. But no, she was the furthest thing from merciful. She was a seductress underneath all her wits and cleverness. Devil itself. Cunning, shy, hot and fuckin’ cruel.

 

Or maybe it was the slightly increased percent of alcohol that’s being pumped alongside with blood through his system. It’s given him the wings he felt like being carried with upwards, on the steps of the building, skipping three-four at once if only that meant that he will see her sooner. Get to be close to her sooner. And the impossible – get her back sooner.

Sure they’ve seen each other in the spawn of 8 months that they were apart. Only in the beginning. And only to yell some more at each other. To make the other one feel more ache and hurt, grief both were convinced the other deserved for each was drowning in anguish over their break up. But both were too vainglorious and pained to admit that yes!, they still loved each over; yes! they wanted to be together; yes! they wanted to amend things. And somehow, instead of confessing they just pushed each over away, until the inevitable came –

One of them just moved on.

 

He?

He was done with suffering. It was easy to quench the burning in his chest with the burning of alcohol in his throat. He’s been doing that every day as for the day of parting. Getting wasted until he was not able to conceive the torment of the literal void in the chest, where should be a heart. It wasn’t there anymore. It’s been shattered over the floor of her apartment, in her bedroom, her living, her kitchen. Drank until he couldn’t even recall how the heck he got home, the only reminder of previous night’s deeds was the all-consuming pain he felt both in physical and pathematic planes.

He wasn’t fond of this delusion inducing outlet, having seen his father lose many dear things at the bottom of the bottle, but now he somehow understood him. It was numbing. It didn’t resolve any problem or unsettle, but for the tiniest of moments, it granted him redemption from smothering reality. Benumbed. It was freeing, in some way.

 What sobered him up was the danger of losing his job. He still drank his mind blank, but only when it was too much too cope with. Just like today.

Only today he stopped after a few shots. Today was too late, but distinctly today he let himself comprehend that his life was she. And if there was not a presence of her in his life, what’s the meaning of it then? He’s going to make a fool of himself, he’ll be laughed at till the end of times, but he’ll be damned if he won’t at least try.

Better late than never.

So here he was.

Bursting through the doors of the church, where at the altar was standing _she._ His only love.

The impeccable white of her dress projected a vail of etherealness on her, like she was out of a dream. Brilliant waterfall of her wavy blonde framed her physique. Small purple flowers weaved in her hair. Little makeup applied just to emphasize her loveliness. And eyes locked with her betrothed.

 

And he was not _him_.

 

***

 

She?

She had no idea how they got here. How she got here.

 

She was dreaming about this day since childhood. She would talk and fantasize with her lifetime friend Veronica about their specific _days_ ; they would take hours to discuss dresses, makeup, places. Would debate about the gargantuan and pompous day of Veronica, played in Plaza and Betty’s pristine and small scenario in a meadow or a park, somewhere there in the nature. Sure thing growing up changed a lot and many times over their picture of the Wedding Day, but this is what she wanted.

 Right?

Here was unraveling her dream. Today was the day when she could feel like the world has stopped just to admire her walking down to the aisle to connect her life with _the_ one. She felt beautiful, she felt loved, she felt happy. And she unlinked her hand from her father’s to stand next to the person she chose to chain her life with.

If this is the perfect day she always dreamt about then where is the obsidian curl hanging between those eyes that adored her with such tremendous intensity? If this is her dream, then why the eyes she was staring into were not of a sapphire shade?

Why?

Because he is an asshole. And he’s stubborn as a mule.

Just like her.

 

She was not sure what the fight was about, she cannot recall, but sure as hell that collapsed her cloud nine. They yelled and shouted and hurt; neither of them was right, neither was wrong, but the words they mouthed hurt enough for the other one to retaliate with peer wounding words. It was a quarrel over a trifle but it exploded to enormous magnitude.

Maybe if she didn’t press it too far things would have turned out differently. If she didn’t make such a big deal out of it she would have him now. If she branched it more gently maybe– for fuck sake, was it pestering her so much that she had to make a scene? If only…

 

If only she had woken up on time she wouldn’t have been late to the interview. Would not have been in such a hurry and paid attention to where she was going and whom she was colliding with. The occurrence of picking up her articles from where they randomly landed would have been just a theoretical possibility. And her life would have never imploded.

That was so not her, her who always had a schedule and a day thoroughly planed. Not like her to get fixated on those long, nimble looking fingers that probably could touch her so good all over her body and bury themselves in the right place.

His face was one from the Greek mythology, or in the least chiseled by gods because no human had so perfect cheekbones, such spellbinding aqua eyes. That’s it! He’s definitely fallen from the stars! And constellations etched on his cheeks serves as confirmation.

His godforsaken shirt was sitting too tight around his arms, giving her a good display of his muscles and an image of them snaking around her waist, holding her tight and hooking under her knees as he pinned her to the wall with his hips –

Oh, his hips! There seemed to be less and less space at the apex of his legs. As a mental scolding was going in her semi-working consciousness, her eyes drifted back to that jaw and its fascinating lips. Hours could be spent to admire the ocean in his eyes she was currently lost into and still not enough. Her hands itched to run through his luscious tresses and scratch his scalp just to hear him groan.

Fuck.

Clench as she might her thighs but it did nothing to suppress her desire for him.

Fuck.

_Fuck me._

NO!

Shit, Veronica was right: she should have had if not a proper relationship then some hock ups once in a while to keep her hormones and desires sated. Then – _probably_ – she in no way would have had sex with the black haired Adonis she stumbled onto on the street. 

 

Neither had any notion or recollection of what they said or how on earth they got to his apartment tens of minutes later. Likely they were too busy sucking and biting and kissing. They did not get far into his flat, hell, it was a wonder that they closed the door cause in the next instant she against it dug her heels into his hips, arousal pressed into heat and arms roaming each other.

Driven mad by their lust and hunger for flesh, any thoughts long forgotten, just raw carnal desire heading them as he hastily tore the only piece of clothing that covered her heat under a ridden up skirt and shoved his pants enough to free himself.

It was wild, hard, fast, but pure pleasure and blissfulness. Blown to the heights extraneous for them before. Leaving them with blank minds and a world dead to them, two strangers that not even half an hour ago met now were a writhing mess of shallow breaths and panting.

First thing she was sure of was his breathless smile in the sweaty crock of her neck, elbows pined to the door in an attempt to sustain their weight as hers was griped on his shoulders with the last remains of power. Delightfully spent. It tickled her neck as her mind started to catch up with what was happening around. “I’m Jughead, by the way.” he said before a fit of conjoined laugher resounded around the room, just now realizing that they did not possess even the bare minimum of intel about each other.

It did not occur to them before that the only way of addressing was just moans and exclamations of profanities and cursing and demands of faster velocity. They did have an excuse to skip formalities: too lost in the opposite sex, and in the act itself too.

“Betty. Betty Cooper.”

“Well Betty Cooper,” Emerald met turquoise. Flush faces with hair sticking to foreheads, lairs of sweat glinting in the sunlight, and such smug and satisfied grins on bruised lips smiling at each other. “If you’re not in a rush anymore, I say we gain a better insight into each other. I know a coffee place in vicinity.”

The interview! She completely blanched on it. Well, the opportunity was lost already so why not make the most of it?

 

In her world of sweaters, milkshakes and friendship bracelets – a world seen through the shade of pink sunglasses – the image of a prince fitted in just well. However, she didn’t get a prince Charming, he had a long way to be him.

First impression of him was of a typical player, all smug in his button-up shirt and black pants. The way he had pinned her to the door and complacent smirks; “Aren’t we all” quip as response to her shy “I’m not like this usually”. But he turned to be such a softie; cuddler; gentle and carrying. He saw her as if he got so much more than destined, and soon she acknowledged his insecurities, adoring him stronger.

He did not possess a mansion, he pulled through in a small flat, but it screamed with his personality. Such modest and unpretentious furnishing, a moderate range of colours revolving just around dark hues. So like him.

And what’s with that hair? Where were the golden locks? How she ended up loving the midnight discarded in every direction in the morning, or the unruly voluptuousness that was so endearing, that tickled her stomach and that way down, and felt just so good amidst her fingers?

That wiry figure. It was a wonder that he could carry her in his arms, steady her around his hips. Legs? Barely can call them that. But she loved when they became a unity of tangled limbs. Arms holding her tight to his chest, sheltering her from all the bad in the universe, psychic monsters under the bed; gripping her waist protectively, bruising seldomly in throes of passion, branding her as his. She liked to be impossibly close to him, or his weight on her, and the mornings when her alarm was a steady beat of his heart under her ear.

That voice. Ughh! His stupid voice did unimaginable things to her and cursed him for his taciturn personality as she loved to hear him talk. Vowing love and reading his latest chapters, biding goodnight’s and gruff-ing ineligible “Five more minutes”. Wisper nothings and dirty things in hear ear, caress her core and groan. Though she could go for hours just watching his profile alight by computer screen and still feel content and peaceful.

Rainbows and Unicorns? Who needs them at the sight of him among puppies? One nestled on his neck, tousling raven locks with paws and chewing on an estranged curl; another one in his embrace, licking his face; many more in his lap. And god, that smile, that bubbling smile – so carefree and charming. Wet eyes were always a consequence of remembering it. Tears of bliss.

Why her imbecile heart stutter every time she called him “ _Juggie_ ”? And swelled just at the sight of him? Or had a pace of a marathoner at the end the run when in close proximity with him? Why her heart hurt so much at his shouts? And broke seeing him leave? It’s just a muscle with one task for entire life. It was not supposed to be stolen by him. And sure as hell not alleged to rankle that much at the splint of Bughead.

 

She did not get a fairy tale. What she had with him was so much more.

 

Lance? Lance was lovely. He was older than her, more mature, all formalities and professionalism but lovely nonetheless. Part of Veronica’s circle of New York’s socialites. That’s in fact how they met: her pearl-wearing bff set them up, after two and a half months of moping after Jughead.

Every next meet up with him was as hurtful as the previous one. A scalding havoc of feelings, a swirling storm of ordeal with puffy red raw face and a fucker headache as consequences. Whilst she thought things will get easier with time passing – they didn’t. It plagued all the same. Each spiteful word lacerated her heart, clawed her chest, made miserable be an attire she wore the days to come. And she could tell he wasn’t handling this better. He was distressed all the same.

But her girl was there when she was a mess.

Thus, when Veronica had enough of seeing her childhood friend anxious and upset, being her rock every time that a-hole – undeserving of her – felt like cutting het down to size, she dressed Betty in a killer red dress – too short, too slutty, making Betty self-conscious – and took her for a bash in Output. Betty did not even remember promising Veronica to meet one of her friends. Reluctance yielded to Veronica’s berating about how she should move one, how he was a jackass undeserving of her, and at least have dinner with Lance.

Her relationship with Lance was… was formal she might say. He was sweet and caring, always aware of her needs and always aimed to please her; freely flowing conversations and flirting, smiles and amazing spent time. It was overly pleasing, her dream in reality. He had stability, money, and a solid future; not to mention her mother liked him so much Betty though Alice might marry him herself.

Lance was… he was… he was different, perfect – but different. And now when she thinks about it, it was not a good different. Lance held her hand tightly, but Jughead… _Jughead_ held it as if protecting something _precious_.

Lance was beautiful, intelligent, but not what her heart yearned for.

So when he proposed, that nagging feeling was discarded and much desired to be forgotten.

Too fast events were progressing. It was way too early in their relationship, and her wedding too quickly arranged. But she was raised to be perfect, always bending to everyone’s will, doing what she was told. When so many were telling her she should marry Lance, she did.

She said yes.

 

And that led to today.

 

She was standing in the middle of a sacred place, a cluster of anxiety, worries and stupid pestering thoughts. Tightly she grasped the fragile bouquet of lilies in order anchor her in the present and not let her slip down the dangerous path of hesitation and second thoughts. Snapped out of day dreaming she was when the doors of the church suddenly broke open; an instantaneous silence befalling upon. Heads turned around to see what – or specifically for this instance who – dared to disturb the ceremony. And then… Then _she_ saw _him_.

She saw him jogging down the aisle and slow to a stop in the middle. Saw him trying to calm his breathing after clearly running here, straitening and shouting loud alright for polar bears to hear him “ _I object!_ ”. Saw her mom getting up and ready to literally wipe him into nonentity. Saw the confused and random panicked looks from people filling the rows. Oh, and she definitely saw that enthusiastic grin on Kevin’s face, that little shit sipping the drama as if it was water for a parched man.

She saw him and her heart shifted.

But it wasn’t _that_ shift.

Betty was aghast, to say the least. Lost in her own emotions, not knowing which one to go with. Confusion; Wrath; Happiness. She picked up her dress to ensure it won’t send her toppling forward whilst descending few steps from the altar and moved towards him, uttering a perplexed “Jug?”.

His breathing was still erratic as she stopped few feet away in front of him. She took his breath away once more. “Gosh, you are beautiful.” Any other day this statement would of warmed her heart. But not today. Today, it filled with plumb.

Desponded sigh left her ribcage before she said anything, hoping it would bring a clearness among her feelings, or mind at least. “Jug, what are you doing here?”. His face was flush red from all the hassle, but an inkling suggested her it was from being inebriated too. Wasn’t the first time she saw him fog-minded. Hair was a mess, some sleek with sweat on his forehead. Clothes wrinkled. Disheveled.

In that second it was validated that _he_ had no outlook over what he wanted to say. What he _needed_ to say. Jughead hadn’t remotely drive his thoughts toward a conception of a preconceived speech. Everything was just an outcome of a stupid decision taken up on a firewater imposed impulse. So herein, with mind running a mile a minute, the writer was at a loss of words.

His circumspect gaze went around the place, taking in all the glares and surprised looks. Suddenly all his braveness vanished as the whispers went on. He felt so small, so foolish. A buffoon for anyone to laugh at.

But there is no way back anymore. Now or never, right?

“I-I’m not sure. But…But I…”. His tumultuous heart found no even pace, racing with adrenaline and fear, alcohol and boldness and what not. It was even stupid enough to consider hope as a rational option. Hope that she would come back.

_Should have known better._

“Don’t you think is a little too late for that?”. She knew what Jughead meant even without voicing it. And god, she wanted that too. She wanted it months ago when crying her heart out, wishing it would alleviate some distress, but it didn’t do any good. But valid had no attribution to that wish, not anymore. Betty knew this was the right decision. The only decision.

“I love you Betty. And-and I want you. I know I was a grand asshole…” Oh yeah, the cliché rambling of a misbehaved delinquent. _Good one, Jughead_. “…and I don’t deserve you in the slightest but– “.

It’s strange how she had everything planned in her life; every day; every move; even an idea had a plan to go by. So why fucking now she was strangled by her own jumble of emotions? Her throat felt constricted and a wonder was that she got the power to push those words through and interrupt his rambling. “Jug. Don’t. We’ve discussed this already.”

Oh, god knows she had a lot to say, the thoughts chasing release every time they argued, but she didn’t. She couldn’t make more of a scene. And she owed Lance that much.  “It’s too late.” she whispered.

Was her mascara waterproof? Cause she can feel the dam almost on the verge of blowing up, if the tears that already brimmed her eyes were any indication.

World disappeared beyond the curtain of darkness; on stage just them; the spectators forgotten. Neither knew the script, but acting regardless; he guided by heart, she – headed her mind. But vision focused just on the opposite.

“Tell me, Betty.” he started, giving his all to keep his voice from trembling with the panic that downed upon. He took a testing step, reaching to her, but halted when she flinched away. “Tell me you don’t feel anything for me.” It took a great endeavor from him to harden his voice and not let it falter, and even bigger effort not to let his torment show more than already glistering eyes.

“You need to go, Jug.” Her voice was shaky. She was shaking herself as trying to keep her wits about herself, to maintain composure. “It’s over.” - a whisper.

Her words wrapped him in a veil of stupor, nearly nudging his legs to take him back and run for hills. As if at last letting the words penetrate his body and scribble in his bones. But Jughead was smart. Well, at least now he started to; cause any other time when they confronted he seemed afraid to sprawl a wrist on account of taking his leg out of mouth and say the right thing. She was deflecting. Betty didn’t give him an answer, just elusion.

So he took the chance, along with the stride necessary to close the thee foot abysmal like stretch amidst them. He even dared to cup her face to force the ever bypassing green eyes to focus on him.

No. Her mascara was not waterproof. The once dry cosmetic was muddying the crystal tears, his touch breaking the last barrier in their wake.

Oh God, how she longed for that touch. She was ready to give her life if only for a moment his hands would hold her. Thumbs making fruitless work on wiping her ceaseless tears on apple of her cheeks. His own stung, but not giving in.

 It was bone shaking challenging not to lean into his arms. Hands grasping tightly her dress just to distract her wild desire to turn head and kiss his palm. Or _him_.

Why were they are comporting like two kids in a quarrel over the last toy shovel in the sandbox? _They were afraid_.

He shook his head. It cannot be happening. It cannot be the end. It’s _them_. Betty and Jughead. This couldn’t possibly be it.

On the verge of irreparably breaking, he was knowingly throwing his entire being under the freight train. It was hard these months without her, bitter and cold. But there was a flicker of faith – they could walk this back – that kept him going. Now he was about to be consumed by gloom and doom, losing the last – the only – lifeline he had.

“Tell me I mean nothing to you,” voice disclosed the tremble in him and the unshed cry; weak and raw, just like he was feeling, “Tell me you don’t love anymore.” It broke, and came out as a whisper.

What was happening to her she had no idea. It was too much. She could take almost everything; but _this_ – was too much.

Faintly behind her Alice was stirring up, could reckon some people were calming her down but she had none of that. Friends, family, and close ones were whispering mumbled words, definitely about Betty and Jughead, but the bride couldn’t care less. Lance was stepping down the stairs in a tranquil way, giving her space but wanting to be by her side nonetheless.

And Jughead. Standing in front of her. Begging for something. Something horrendous. Cruel.

He pleaded for one final dismissive validation.

But can she give him that? Can she let him go? Her only true love?

She was so confused. On sharp edge of having a panic attack. Slowly but surely sending herself into a vortex, spiraling down. A cluster fuck of messed up feelings and obfuscation. Watery blue was staring so pleadingly it physically pricked.

Her heart in a vice grip of thorns constricted at every intake of air, hard was breathing even.

She was drowning.

In emotions.

In judgment.

In love.

“Elisabeth!” Alice was calling.

“Lizzy?” Her groom.

Their voices filtered through the spell, awaking the rationality in her. The one she lost years ago when her way to interview was obstructed. Reasoning that was almost mechanical. Integrated in her in years she spent in her childhood home and ever since. Ripples of utterances in the back of her head. The very sense of logic that told she should avoid carbs; she overpassed the amount of calories for the day; she looks like a slut in that skirt; grades are important; “You don’t want to end like Polly, dear”.

So Betty did what she always did – subdue to else’s desires.

With all conviction that could be mustered in her, she steadily pronounced the most terrific word– 

“No.”

Why not impale his heart on a spike? Would had been equivalent.

Hands dropped from her face as he put distance between her and him. She missed the warmth. Distress on Jughead’s face cankering her insides. He appeared flummoxed, panicked and so lost it made her want to envelope him in her embrace and soothe the unsettle she caused. His now free falling streams of salty pearls were slashing her. He gazed into her emeralds, rooting her to the spot by the intensity of sincerity and _love_ she saw in them.

And then…

Then he smiled.

An honest to God tight lipped smile. A true one.

A smile among the perpetual silent crying, but smile nevertheless.

And it crushed her.

Then he spoke.

“Well then, Betty Cooper… I wish you a lifetime of happiness. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you happy and I’m sorry for the way I treated you; that I took you as granted… But I-…I am glad you found someone who knows to appreciate you and makes it right by you. I hope your beloved will make you happy because you deserve the world. I am sorry my love wasn’t enough… You make a wonderful bride, Betts… Live a merry life... Farewell, love of my life.”

Tears running down, broken exterior mirroring his insides, words strangling his throat and bitten lip for keeping a resemblance of control, trembling chin and a fucking smile. This beautiful, sweet man laid his frank wishes to the best thing ever happened to him, dooming himself to months if not years of anguish and hurt.

And just like that, he turned around and left. No more words to drop.

Remember that fucking muscle meant to sustain our life by beating? Well, Betty should had been dead by now, cause her heart was too heavy to stay in her chest. It was suffocating her. She felt so much pain. Everywhere. So maddeningly wrecking Betty felt it crawl under her skin, through the nape of head and onto her back, almost breaking it from the force and sheer amount. Pulse rushing wild, hammering at temples, provoking a skull cracking ache making harder acknowledging the asphyxiating lungs.

She wanted to scream. Roar inhumanly till she could not take anymore the scratch of it in her throat. Wanted to lash out, to kick and punch some benches. Break anything; tear to pieces; obliterate; erase from existence. Murder if it were for someone to cross with her; her mother desirably.

Her body shook, trembled with the weight of it all. Want to collapse, to be absorbed by the floor, desert and find refuge in the darkest corner of universe. She suddenly felt week, exhausted and drained of power from the sentimental avalanche. She desired to sleep on it in hopes that when she’ll wake up this catastrophe would disappear on its own. Ideal at the moment was to be being in bed, under covers, with his strong arms around her, stroking her arm and kissing top of her hair. Ideal was hugging him so close it would be possible to bury her being into him.

_He_ always made her feel better.

Safe was when he was around. Comfort was her in his lap, drawing doodles on his shirt. Cuddles were best remedy for her anxiety and spooning often ended with wood pressed against her back, but so, so pleasing. Satisfaction were empty plates of her food, wolfed down with endless praises. Smugness became his lips full of cookie crumbles that she got to kiss off of him, laughing like children.

And he…

He was a moron who dared to taint the most important day of her life!

She was outraged by his audacity to show up. Yes, she sent an invitation for him, only because she knew he won’t have the guts to come. Also because she was feeling rather impish after the second bottle of wine shared with Veronica one night. But how he dared, after all the brawls they had, to show up saying he loved her, needed her? On her wedding day, no less.

Betty was fuming about a load of things. Like her stupidity. And mix of moods. And about him. Abandoning her 8 months earlier; not cooperating when she sought amends; requesting to get back when she was nurturing vexations; all spiteful words he directed towards her; and seeing him leave – again.

Yeah, rage was a power to supply her. And she channeled all the raging feelings into one.

Oh, Jughead, hang onto your beanie cause Betty right now was a force – seething with anger – to be reckoned with.

 

But all Jughead wanted now was to be numb. He cursed himself for being so gullible. Damned the moment he left the bar and cussed the instance he thought he can get her back.

He wandered mindlessly around the streets, the bar being a vague destination. Desire to drink himself into oblivion was strong as never. He did not see another escape other than dulling his senses. Man, now he understood his father. Alcohol was not an answer, but it granted relief.

He nearly got hit by a car, bumped into people and even got hustled to the side by someone more tempered. He didn’t care what will happen to him anymore, he could be dragged into a dark alleyway and be mugged for all he cares.

Reality came to him with the unexpected drop of flower petals. Crimson red and pure white petals of lilies, to be specific. Obscurely he was able to register the smack on his scruff. It made him stop in his way and look at the flowers littering the pavement. A bouquet.

A wedding bouquet.

Thrown at his head.

And then he heard her. Thundering.

“Jughead Jones! You don’t get to leave like that after the freak show you just orchestrated in there!”

There was Betty: white dress ruined with the street dirt; face red, puffy and smudged with mascara; chest unevenly heaving; wrath going off in waves; and _she was_ _beautiful._

He was bereft of capacity of vocalizing anything, he was just glad to see her albeit it was just some tens of minutes. And would take anything she has. Oh, and she had a handful of things to give him, like a piece of her mind. So she stormed towards him, heels clicking soundly, stomping determinedly and shoving her finger furiously in his chest.

“Do you realize what you did? You just ruined my wedding! You selfishly showed up like you own the place and made a scene. Have you even thought for a second what the heck you were doing?”

No response. Not that she really gave him time to say something, continuing with her berating.

“Of course not. You never think about anything. You hurt me, Jughead! Do you know how agonizing it was when you left me? How hard it was to get over you? And when I finally got my life back on track, you showed up and fucked it up over again.”

Eyes brimmed again, but she be damned if letting them flow now. She yelled in his face and pushed her finger over and over again, wanting to make him show some sort of remorse or repentance. It wasn’t necessary though. He was riled up with guilt enough to last a lifespan. But she wasn’t done, not by a long shot. So she went on.

“Oh, and when did you become so ballsy as to pull a stunt like that? Last time I checked you hadn’t had the guts to concede your own mishap.”

Expected was an apology that won’t cut in the slightest, some deprecating ramble or even flee; but he took her up her challenge.

“It takes two to tango, Betty. You told me to ghost your apartment, remember?”

“And you happily obliged! Where were your balls then? Under my heel?”

“Last time I checked you definitely was such a bitch.”

She took a deep breath to calm her fraying nerves and shoot him a wholehearted glare.

“You called that same bitch the love of your life just before or did you stutter?”

“You said you don’t love me anymore! Said we are over! So what the fuck you are doing here?”

That got her mute. What was she really doing here. She run away from her own wedding to chase after him. She knew what she wanted, but how can she tell Jughead when he is so…just so unbelievable.

“Nothing to say for yourself? What else is new?”

She couldn’t do it anymore. It’s like the vinyl recording of a song that came to an end; the patiphon still on and its needle replaying the crackling noise over and over again. They were stuck in a vicious cycle of dispute. And she could take just so much.

Her resolution crumbled alongside with apoplectic front. Betty’s lowered head and a hand flat on his chest instead of pointing digit cracked his own.  

“Did you?” His gentle tone startled her. And her response was as resigned as his.

“Did I what?”

“How…How did you manage to _get over_ me?”

She looked at him. Those cerulean eyes were penetrating, boring into the core of her soul, searching for what she assumed was a mean to escape the claws of desolation. But he won’t find anything. Because she did not have the answer. It was no riddle by now – they were perfect for each other.

“I didn’t.”

He belonged to _her_. And she was _his_.

“W-what? But you just…”

With ever so light voice, she rebuilded the path back–

“How _could_ I, Juggie?”

 

 

They?

They probably had an idea how they got here.

They were afraid.

Ready to kneel and beg, but in the wake of insecurities were always drawn back. When about to take step ahead and say _“I’m sorry”_ they also prepared for gut wrecking punch of refusal. So they never did, resulting in plus one quarrel.

They are young still. Making rush decisions and being stubborn is part of being young and hurt. You always tend to bring down the one next to you when drowning.

Making mistakes is also a part of being young. And they made mistakes. Like, a lot. They didn’t solve their issues, they were just draining the angst. They didn’t reconcile, they hurt. They were suffering in one’s own torment.

The thing is – you learn from mistakes. Try not to burn yourself twice.

And they did. They learned from their mistakes. Learned a lesson never forgotten their whole lives.

Learned to give away and to compromise.

To talk through problems and not bottle emotions.

They learned to say three expressions more frequently. Simple in noun but deep in meaning.

_Please._

_Forgive me._

_I love you._

 

They?

They ended up against his door. Lost both in blissful oblivion of carnal release and stained fabric of the wedding dress.

How they got there?

Took a taxi, not even apologizing for the heathy make out in their scramble to make up for the months spent apart.

He was panting in the crook of her neck, fanning her sweaty and itching skin, his legs were jelly, but somehow managed to keep them both pinned to the door. She gripped his hair hard – missed dearly the feel of it – like claiming him; wanted to get out of the dress as soon as possible. And then, yet floating in pleasure, he said something that made them both understand just how stupid they were, how amidst of being blinded by pride their nearly lost each other. Something that had them giggling.

_“I’m Jughead, by the way.”_


End file.
